


Vegan Friday Chickpea Incidents

by GingerNinjaAbi



Category: Lovely Little Losers, Nothing Much to Do
Genre: M/M, Vegan Friday Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-12
Packaged: 2018-04-14 09:20:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4559223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GingerNinjaAbi/pseuds/GingerNinjaAbi





	Vegan Friday Chickpea Incidents

The best thing about Balthazar cooking them dinner on Fridays was that he would sing under his breath whilst he did it.

Peter could hear him through the thin wall that separated his room from the kitchen, his quiet voice not quite hidden by the whirring extractor fan and the hissing of frying onions (which smelled amazing, and maybe he’d come and sit down with them all this time when it was served). 

For now, he lay on his bed half-staring at the segment above him on the partially stained ceiling, and let his headache be soothed by the barely audible voice next door, that seemed to be seeping through the walls, as warm as the kitchen air undoubtedly was.

The shift last night had been a late one, filtering into the dregs of early morning, when the sky over Wellington had begun to lighten to a pre-dawn grey, the colour of the circles that now swept underneath his eyes. The headache was the remnant of customer generosity, of people asking him to ring a drink for himself through the till, something he’d been entirely unable to refuse himself. 

He hadn’t seen any of his flatmates today, owed to the careful listening for the front door closing, and the ascertained sounds of their absence that preceded any movement from his room. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see them. It was more that he didn’t want them to see _him_. He didn’t want those worried looks, those bitten back remarks, or the judgement. So he’d stayed within those four walls, nestled there between unfolded laundry and the course notes he hadn’t looked at in a while.

It sounded like Balthazar was the only other flatmate currently in the house. Freddie and Ben were the kind of people whose presence was impossible to not know of. They were loud, and colourful, like a pair of fireworks. And they sometimes felt too bright to be about, as if they’d left imprints beneath his eyelids.

There was a clatter in the kitchen, the sounds of a saucepan being placed on their temperamental stove, and Balthazar’s singing faded slightly, before strengthening again.

Peter had sat up at some point, the exact moment eluded him, his sock-covered feet pressing against the faded carpet, the headache still determinedly pressing at his temples.

He suddenly realised how thirsty he was.

He supposed it was a little unfair on Balthazar that there was a distinct lack of warning in his going from his room to the kitchen. That thought dawned on him when Balthazar turned around and saw him standing in the doorway, and his singing abruptly cut off.

There was a beat of awkwardness, of their eyes meeting across the space sketched by linoleum tiles, fake marble counter-tops and their ridiculous fridge.  
“Oh, hey,” Balthazar then said, and there was nothing uneven or cold in his tone, and maybe it was just Peter who felt this, this unspoken uncertainty, laced with a guilt that burned as if he’d doused his insides with gasoline.

“Hi,” He heard himself say, throwing on the smile that Balthazar could usually bring to Peter’s lips naturally, but today felt strained and forced. He moved towards the cupboard where the glasses were precariously stacked, opening it and selecting a clean one as he spoke, “What’s on the menu?”

“Er, roasted vegetable stew,” Balthazar replied, tailing off slightly as he opened a cupboard, tipping his head back to stare at the upper shelves, “And chickpeas if they can be located.”

Peter watched him a moment, the way his fingers were beating against the cupboard handle, the way the side of his face that was visible flickered as he regarded the contents of the shelves. After a time, he let out a low ‘aha’, gesturing up at the uppermost shelf, where sure enough, two tins of chickpeas sat. They were also at least half a metre from Balthazar’s reach.

“Could you-” He began to ask, but Peter had already moved, setting the empty glass down heavily, and bringing himself alongside Balthazar, who hurriedly released the cupboard handle and stepped away, hands working the sleeves of his jumper over his fingers.

“Ben keeps moving everything.” Peter muttered, stretching upwards and working the first of the tins forward with a finger.

“He is very strict on cupboard allocations.” Balthazar agreed, a small smile playing on his lips.

“Mmm.” Peter said non-committally, because he didn’t particularly want to think about Ben right at this moment, and he wanted to try and stay away from the bitterness that always seemed to be at the back of his throat like a bad taste.

Balthazar seemed to realise this too.

“You know Ursula said she’d send me hummus?” He said, taking up a wooden spoon and stirring the contents of the saucepan on the hob, the sentence stilted with the odd hesitations that were so custom of him it felt almost soothing to hear.

“Isn’t that forbidden?” Peter asked with a wry grin, setting the first of the tins down on the counter and reaching for the second. He was overly conscious of how he wasn’t looking at Balthazar, not directly, but there was a hyper-awareness of his movements, of his arm stirring the frying vegetables, the odd shuffle of feet. 

“I don’t know, man,” Balthazar said, allowing a smile to take over his face, “No flat money was involved.”

“I don’t think Freddie would be convinced by that argument.” Peter informed him, lips twitching.

“No.” Balthazar admitted through a breathy laugh. Peter held out the two retrieved cans of chickpeas towards him, and Balthazar reached out a hand to take them. He hadn’t thought it through, and one of the cans began to slip from the side of his palm. In a jerking movement he swept the other hand forwards, abandoning the wooden spoon he’d been stirring ingredients with, and at the same time Peter whipped a hand up to steady the can. Their hands clashed, fingers brushing warm over the other’s, and Peter drew in a breath that pulled sharply at his lungs. He schooled his face, setting it, keeping his eyes fixed on the point where their hands were touching, focusing on the feel of the worn fabric of Balthazar’s jumper, as if that were somehow easier than looking at his face and reading whatever was there.

“Er, thanks,” Balthazar said after a minute, and Peter chanced a look to his features. His eyes were fixed on the cans, fair eyelashes lit in the glare of the overhead bulb. As he spoke, his lips quirked into the half smile that usually appeared when he did so, but perhaps it seemed less bright than usual, more unsettled. Peter never knew where Balthazar’s mind was, and he supposed that was largely his own fault.

He was still studying Balthazar’s face when he looked up and met his eye. He was subsequently tangled in irises streaked in blue.

The front door slammed.

“I. Am. Returned!” Ben’s voice announced from the living room, each word staggered with a loud, deliberate footfall as if he were some Godzilla offshoot. Balthazar took a sudden step back, pressing the cans to his chest and averting his eyes once more, bottom lip disappearing beneath his teeth.

Ben sprang into the kitchen a moment later, slamming a hand into Fridgris Elba and making its goggle eyes rattle slightly.

“This… _isn’t_ looking like Vegan Friday, Balth,” He informed Balthazar, eyes sweeping between the two of them as they stood frozen, facing one another.

“Ah, it is now there are chickpeas,” Balthazar responded lightly, eyes dropping downwards as he waved one tin upwards, before turning back towards the somewhat abandoned dish.

“What would happen if a chicken nugget hypothetically made its way into the mix?” Ben enquired, throwing his rucksack down on the small, wobbly table that was drawn up against the wall. It squeaked in protest. 

“Then that’s not conforming to Vegan Friday and we’ll devise you a punishment.” Peter informed him, sending him a rather challenging smile. Ben let out a put upon sigh. 

“Well, I’m going to Skype Bea.” He announced, hauling out his phone from his bag, “Let me know when I can lay the table, Balth.”

“Will do.” Balthazar responded, now studiously stirring in the troublesome chickpeas.

Ben whirled from the room, as quick and loud as he had entered, as if he were some kind of tornado.

In his wake he left a rather awkward silence, one filled with the slow bubbling of a saucepan’s contents and the whir of the determined extractor fan. Balthazar’s low singing was no longer a part of it.


End file.
